


Lost in Thought

by AstraLowelle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, Little Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27676604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstraLowelle/pseuds/AstraLowelle
Summary: Young Sherlock gets lost in his mind palace.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	Lost in Thought

Sherlock was lost.

He'd been wandering around for a while now; entering rooms, crossing hallways, descending staircases. Ascending them, having a quick look around. Descending again. Nope.

He sighed, in mild frustration.

Entering a small chamber, Sherlock peered at his surroundings. The Polly Mumford case. That had been a fun one, but all too short- only half a day. But the stuffed animal had been located and her brother identified as the thief, so that had been nice. Sherlock didn't like Polly's brother.

He didn't like Polly either, come to that.

But that was two years ago, when Sherlock was eight. He was much more grown up now. Why couldn't he find his way out?

Dinner was in ten minutes, and dessert was fudge gateau, one of Sherlock's favorites. He didn't want to miss that.

He released another deep breath and tried to think logically. He knew his way out, didn't he? He had _built_ this place.

It had been a hard day, and Sherlock's brain was starting to hurt. That why he had come here in the first place. Escape. Escape from everything.

But that had been a bad move, because everything was _here._ Everything- stored away neatly in its correct room or chamber or pavilion or vestibule. There was enough space for everything; if there wasn't, Sherlock would simply build a new wing. Everything was here.

And he'd gone here to escape everything.

And now he couldn't find his way out.

Sherlock was starting to get scared. What good was having a place that no information could leave if _he_ couldn't leave?

Stuck.

Trapped.

Sherlock sat down, hard, on the floor.

He closed his eyes.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock felt a rush of both relief and something else he couldn't name flood his body.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Yes." Sherlock didn't open his eyes. The rush vanished, to be replaced by a calm, cool breeze. "Mycroft, I'm lost."

"Lost...?" came Mycroft's voice. "In your mind palace?"

"Yes."

It was Mycroft's idea, really. Mycroft knew _everything._ And he was still sane.

 _Build yourself a palace,_ Mycroft had said, years ago. Years and years ago. _Go there if everything gets to be too much. Put everything away. You won't forget if you do. Build yourself a mind palace, Sherlock._

So Sherlock had. And was therefore able to keep a semblance of normalcy and sanity in his life.

But Mycroft had never said what to do if you got lost.

"I'm lost," Sherlock repeated, eyes still closed, and hated that his voice cracked.

He felt someone touch his shoulder, squeeze his hand, let go.

"That's all right, brother mine." Mycroft's voice was gentle. "Relax. You'll find your way out. Just remember what I showed you. What do you remember?"

"Polly Mumford." Sherlock kept his voice condensed. He got up from the floor again and looked around.

Polly. Bruno. Straight upstairs to the right staircase. Silverware, china. The Mings. The colors of a cat's eye.

"Good, Sherlock."

Surer now, more confident, Sherlock kept walking. Across the hall, bubble gum flavors, Dutch elm disease. Down the spiral staircase to the second floor. Comic strips that weren't funny, Versace, submachine guns, ancient Peruvians. Across the ballroom with the twelve chandeliers.

"Keep going. What else do you remember?"

Sherlock waved a hand vaguely. He was doing fine on his own now.

Toothpaste, calla lilies. Denim jackets with the sleeves rolled up and why. Charcoal.

The entrance hall.

Sherlock walked calmly across and opened the door. Stepped out.

He sat down in his desk chair and looked up at Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded, with a modicum of calm pride. "Let's not be late for dinner, Sherlock. It's in four minutes. Father's home already."

"Three and a quarter," Sherlock corrected, and stood up.

He would really have to make some renovations later.

But first, fudge gateau.


End file.
